


Progress

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, I can't believe I just added that tag to a Fight Club fic, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, This is very fluffy just warning you all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's when he goes and leans on my shoulder, which is… unexpected. Not entirely unwelcome."</p>
<p>In which Tyler gets cuddly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progress

I'm sitting on the couch, reading another of the abandoned magazines, when a creak in the springs tells me Tyler had deigned to join me.

I am Jack's lack of surprise.

He doesn't bother to say anything, so I ignore him. We stay like that, for a moment—me, pretending to read, and him, pretending to read over my shoulder.

That's when he goes and leans on my shoulder, which is… unexpected. Not entirely unwelcome. I wonder if he’s tired—if he, like me, gets insomnia. I don’t know if he’s the type. I don’t think so.

His hands begin to twitch in the corner of my eye, but I keep myself focused on the watery magazine in my hands. His hair is too much of a distraction against my bare shoulder as it is.

He points, vaguely, to the magazine. “What’re you reading,” he doesn’t so much ask as state.

I tell him it’s nothing important.

He sighs. “But what is it.”

I tell him it’s about some third-world country from ten years ago that isn’t faring much better now than it did then.

He snorts. “Progress.”

He shifts, almost… snuggling into my shoulder. Tyler Durden does not _snuggle_. But this… what else could it be?

I want to ask him what he’s doing, but I glance at him instead. He looks up at me, a child on my shoulder.

“What?” he says.

Nothing, I reply.

His lips quirk up. “Figured you would say that.”

I turn back to my magazine, and his hands begin to twitch again. I feel him shift, slightly, to move his hand up and—

Into my hair. He’s… stroking my hair. Idly, almost. Like I’m a cat.

I ask him if he thinks I’m a cat.

His huff of breath is almost a laugh. “No. You’re more the little, yappy dog type. One that’s been fed too much.”

I open my mouth to protest, but his fingers start carding through my hair again, and I shut up. It isn’t fair to either of us to interrupt something we’re both clearly enjoying.

We stay like that for a while—me, my fingers gripping my magazine; him, his fingers in my hair. I start to feel something like sleepiness, and I put the magazine down, moving slowly to avoid disturbing Tyler. He looks about as sleepy as I does, if Tyler Durden could possibly look sleepy.

I ask him if I can lean back.

He doesn’t answer, but when I move, he follows.

We form a half-question mark—his back to the couch, mine to his, his fingers never leaving the twine in my hair. They’re snagged, permanently, it seems. Not that I mind. 

I… don’t really mind at all.

I think we fall asleep like that, or at least sink into something like sleep. When I wake, he’s still there. 

I am Jack’s utter shock.

I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck, steady and even. I realize, with a start, that he’s still asleep.

If I let myself curl further toward him, if I place my hand on top of his, slung haphazardly over my hip, it’s for me to know.

But part of me still hopes he wakes up.


End file.
